


Old Wounds: Inspired Ficlets and Drabbles

by Usedtobehmc



Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: Depression, F/M, Gen, Juni belongs to A-Lucy-Goose, M/M, PTSD, Scars, genderless pyro
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-01
Updated: 2015-09-05
Packaged: 2018-04-18 10:33:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 1,671
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4702811
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Usedtobehmc/pseuds/Usedtobehmc
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The new comic gives me inspiration and life.  </p><p>Any suggestions for future drabbles/ficlets are welcome.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Goodbye Ruby Tuesday

 

Spy thought at first that massive blood loss was making him hallucinate the glowing red bead that skirted across the walls of their hiding spot.  He'd already hallucinated childhood friends and a talking balloonicorn in the past six hours.  But this was different: this glowing read bead of light was _real_.  And when he crept up to the one window in the storage room and peeked out into the night, he knew that the silhouette on the adjacent building was not a figment of his imagination.  

 

"It can't be.  It's... not possible," he thought frantically as adrenaline flooded his system.  Suddenly it was too hot; he shed his jacket and silently crept past his sleeping teammates, casting an extra-wary glance towards Miss Pauling.  It was stupid to venture out on his own, but he had to know…

 

He simply had to know for sure.  

 

Even wounded, malnourished and sleep-deprived, he was a master of stealth and kept to the shadows with practiced ease.  Jumping from one roof to the next hurt, and it hurt a lot.  But it got him to the particular roof that the bead of light had come from, so he ignored his screaming ribs and burning back.  

 

Crouched against a decrepit water tower, smoking a crumpled stolen cigarette… was Sniper.  A rifle that obviously didn't belong to him was on the ground close by.  He regarded Spy with a grim look.  

 

"Was hoping you were still alive."

 

"I..." Spy fumbled, still not entirely believing that what he was looking at was real.  "I had abandoned that hope for you, mon ami."  A thought pierced his mind and he strode forward on wobbly legs, suddenly enough that Sniper inched back.  Spy's hand landed where Sniper's shoulder met his neck and when his visage didn't dissolve or flicker, Spy didn't know whether to be relieved or even more confused.  "How in God's name--"  

 

With a grunt and a considerable amount of effort, Sniper picked himself off the ground and pulled off his threadbare undershirt.  As he lifted his arms to remove it, he flinched and gave a angry grunt, hating the pain and how it dulled his senses.  

 

For a good long moment, Spy only heard white noise and his vision got hazy.  He could almost hear neurons in his brain firing and fizzling out in a vain attempt to keep up with his racing thoughts.  He literally didn't know how he felt. 

 

Horrified.  Terrified.  Relieved.  Sick.  Worried.  Disbelieving.  So happy he could vomit.  

 

"You alright, mate?"  Sniper's voice... that weary, gravelly tone.  

 

"Jesus.  Sniper, that looks horrible."  

 

The corner of Sniper's mouth quirked up.  "Stitches were never the doc's strong suit. But I think I look good for 12 hours in the grave."  

 

Spy took in the words but they barely registered; their terrifying implications chose to nest in Spy's brain for another day.  "I'm going to kill them," his voice didn't waver, even though his legs threatened to give out at any moment.  "I'm going to kill every last one of them.  With my own hands."  He balled up his fists and tried to raise them, but his arms only bent to a 45-degree angle before they fell to his sides again.  

 

His legs gave out and his world went dark.  

 

He dreamt of Sniper screaming as strips of flesh were peeled from his body.  

 


	2. Juni-Bug

When the flames had settled, and the ringing in their ears from the massive explosion of the Classics' sub had abated, the mercs took a collective breath of relief. They were exhausted, battered, missing body parts, and slightly hungry... but they were alive. 

Pyro crept up to where Sniper lay panting in the sand and knelt beside him. With curious fingers Pyro gently explored the road map of aggravated (and probably infected) scars that laced up and down Sniper's torso. There were sounds of concern and comfort from the vents in the ever-present mask. 

Sniper's hand landed on Pyro's stopping the exploration. 

"You alright... Juni-bug?" 

Pyro nodded, and pulled Sniper closer, even as their shoulders shook.


	3. Think of the Amazing Repartee

 

"Is there not even a trace of life then, Doctor?  He is truly dead?"

 

"Yes.  Definitely dead.  For at least six hours."  The good doctor makes a noise of deep contemplation.

 

"So it is impossible.  He is gone."  

 

"Well, not impossible, Archimedes.  Just very very hard."  

 

The Doctor is the smartest man alive.  He can do great things.  He can fix broken bones, make bleeding stop.  He can even make you fly again if something has broken your wing.  

 

The Doctor is a great man.

 

I try not to be a nuisance as he works.  But it is a very long time before he remembers to give me some food, he is so busy with his friend on the table.  Thankfully there is a biscuit nearby that I have not finished, so I eat and settle down for a nap.  I will not miss much anyway.  

 

I wake up to lots of shouting and the sound of a loud crash.  The dead man is alive!

 

And he is angry!  

 

But the doctor knows how to calm him and soon their voices are soft again.  I do not like too much shouting.

 

And it is just when things have become calm again when the big man with the black eyes comes storming in.  I do not like this man.  He is a brute and he does not love The Doctor.  I don't think he knows just how smart The Doctor is. 

 

I hate this man.

 

Perhaps I can help to lower his voice.  Sometimes, when I sit on The Doctor's shoulder, it makes him calm.  Perhaps if I--

 

******

 

Pain!  Big pain!

 

I am alive!

 

Somehow I was dead.  I know this!

 

But The Doctor cradles me and I am alive again.

 

I flutter to safety as the Brute continues to yell, and that's when I notice that The Doctor's friend has gone.  The Brute swings and hits The Doctor's special gun and it breaks on the floor with a crunch.

 

I am unhappy because The Doctor is unhappy.  He does not smile anymore and his eyes have gone blank. 

 

The brute storms out the door and we are left alone, finally.  

 

"Doctor," my voice is weak.  "If I may.  I don't believe The Brute appreciates you at all.  I think ill-mannered brutes need a lesson in respect."

 

"Hrm.  Yes, Archimedes.  I couldn't agree more."

 

The Doctor is a great man.  

 


	4. Pop Songs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sniper wonders what is keeping him here.

The memory of being shot has actually faded from his mind like a dream.  The memory was definitely vivid and sharp once, but he more-so knew the details rather than remembered them.  He remembered waking up.  That hadn't faded.  

 

He remembered heaven. 

 

He knew it was real, no matter what the Medic insisted.  In dreams, you couldn't smell anything.  He'd never once smelled something in a dream.  

 

But he'd smelled his Mother's hair when she embraced him.  And his Father's aftershave.  

 

More than anything he'd ever been sure of in his life, Sniper knew that it had been real.

 

He dragged a towel across his head to collect the excess moisture and stretched his back, which gave out a few satisfying pops.  

 

As he toweled off the rest of his body with the towel, his eyes drifted to the mirror and the reflection of his body, criss-crossed with train-track scars.  

 

He'd never been a vain man.  

 

But the scars were still hard for him to look at.  

 

He traced across the entire width of his collarbone with his forefinger.  Then down the length of his sternum.  If he held his arms straight out to the sides to make a 'T' shape, the scars on his arms looked like continuations of the lines across his chest.  

 

For a while, when they'd been fresh, he figured they'd heal and be reduced to thin pink lines.  Maybe a little raised, but nothing to write home about... so to speak.  He'd been wrong of course.  They healed terribly; probably due to all the stress he put on every individual staple and stitch that held his scrawny hide together immediately after being revived.  Not that he regretted that part.  A few of the most satisfying parts of his life were putting bullets through the heads of those sorry sacks of shit that kidnapped and tortured his team.  Especially that pot-shot-taking old coot that killed him in the first place.  

 

****

 

Spy found Sniper out behind the house, sitting in his favorite lawn chair with a beer and watching the sunset.  

 

Spy clutched his scarf tighter around his neck and wondered how Sniper could be so comfortable in just trousers and an undershirt.  The scattered beer bottles around the lawn chair were a pretty damning clue, though.  He stood next to Sniper's chair and watched the sun set with him, unsure if the silence was comfortable or not.  

 

When the sun dipped behind the horizon leaving only pink behind, Sniper let his most recently finished beer bottle drop to the ground.

 

He sighed.  "It was beautiful."

 

"Yes, it was.  This country always did have beautiful sunsets."

 

"Not that," Sniper slurred.  Drunker than originally thought, it seemed.  Sniper rubbed at the central scar on his chest as his eyes drifted closed.  

 

Spy's eyes wandered back to the fleeing remnants of dusk.  

 

Sniper flicked on the little hand-held radio that he never travelled without.  It was weather-beaten and far out of date and a perfect reminder of home decades ago.  From the battered speakers came the happy-go-lucky notes of a pop-song from some American band that Spy didn't care much for.  This particular song was too twangy and _country-western_ for his tastes.  

 

When Sniper started singing along with the chorus, voice far too gravelly and dark for such material, he knew it was time to go inside for the night.  

 

"What am I doin' hangin' 'round.... I should be on that train and gone... Ridin'... train to San Antone..."

 

Sniper didn't resist when Spy made motions to lead him inside, but he didn't stop singing either.  

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
